


All the Fears You Hold So Dear

by threeplusfire



Series: All of Me [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Domestic Violence, Drunken sex, M/M, Post-World War II, Smoking, Survivor Guilt, Troffy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought things would get easier when they made it home from the war. Smith keeps drinking too much, and waiting for Trott to leave him behind. A companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4448939">"You Seemed An Honest Man."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Fears You Hold So Dear

**Author's Note:**

> When I originally read Leon's draft of his story ["You Seemed An Honest Man."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4448939), I was stunned by the desire to write the other side of the scene. I just had such strong feelings about Smith's drinking, about this barely functional relationship of two people trying to keep it together after the war, about how you can think you know exactly what a person is thinking and still be so wrong. We started talking about this nonstop, and the result was a pair of stories. I drew a lot on my own personal experiences in this with a partner whose substance abuse issues were medicating a more serious mental health issue. While this story does not show very healthy coping mechanisms, it does feel very honest to the sort of experience I've lived through.

He didn’t really have a reason. Nothing specific had happened today. He went to work, put in a couple hours standing in front of a sink, hot water soaking through his trousers when it splashed. It hadn’t even been that bad. They’d listened to the radio, and he’d talked shit with the other guys back there until it was time to light a cigarette and take a break. They always cut Smith loose first. He didn’t mind, except when he did. The money was hardly worth it. But it was a job, and Trott was on him to just keep a fucking job for more than two weeks this time.

At home, even the radio couldn’t chase away the static lingering in the back of his head. The walls of their cheap little flat felt stifling, and Smith had finally gone out. Just one drink, he told himself. Back before anyone knew it. Maybe see if any of his friends were around. Have a drink or two. Then go home.

But it never happened like that.

Smith sat at the bar, his elbows on the edge of the smooth wood and jacket slung over the back of the chair. His glass was almost empty, just a ghost of whiskey left behind. He took a long drag off his cigarette, burning it right down to the skin before he stubbed it out in the ashtray. The pack in his pocket was empty, and he crumpled the paper in his hand. He didn’t know if he had the cash to buy some ready mades off someone at the bar.  

“Smith?” The sound of his name made him swivel before he recognized the voice. Smith turned away quickly, not wanting to face Trott. He wasn’t ready for that. Shame rose thick in his throat, hot and sticky, burning like too much smoke. Trott’s hand on his arm jolted him.

“Fuck off, Trott” Smith slurred, startled. Dimly, he registered Trott tapping on his watch. Smith realized it must be late, for Trott to be here in the bar instead of at the hospital. Fuck. It was late. He’d stayed too long, had god knows how many drinks. Smith reluctantly slid off the stool, propping himself against the bar as he shrugged into his jacket. He concentrated on holding himself upright. The noise of the bar was a quiet swirl. Fingers in a pocket, he wondered if he’d paid up yet when Trott pulled him outside.

“Alright, mate?” Trott’s voice was low, barely audible. Smith grunted, not quite ready for words. Instead he leaned on Trott, taking comfort in his closeness. He felt bad, of course, as they stumbled home. With every step, Smith’s heart sank further as he thought about what an ass he was for doing this again. Any money he’d made today was probably gone. He was leaning on Trott, dragging them through the dark streets in the middle of the night because he hadn’t stopped at one or two or even three. Smith felt sick, that restless frantic feeling creeping in under the edge of his buzz.

At the door, he shoved past Trott and headed into the kitchen. Leaning against the coolness of the sink, the water helped ease some of the dizziness. It didn’t chase away any of the anger at himself. That restless, furious sense of terror simmered in him, beneath the comforting haze of alcohol. Smith wanted to run, or to scream, or to fight. Anything to give voice to the clanging feeling inside. He tipped a cupful of water into his mouth, rinsing away the stale taste of too many cigarettes. He’d only just bought this pouch of tobacco, thinking it would last through the week. His head was already starting to pound.

“Smith.” Behind him, Trott’s voice was too calm. It made Smith want to scream.

“Just say it, Trott.” Smith gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady himself. The room wobbled around him, everything taking on a slightly surreal edge. He held tight to the sink, willing the coldness to seep into him and clear his thoughts. He braced himself, feeling sure this would be the time Trott ended it. This would be the last straw for him, one night too many.

“Say what, Smith?” Trott’s voice was so gentle it hurt.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Smith breathed out, misery seeping into his voice. He turned finally to look at Trott. He couldn’t stand how kind he was being. It made Smith want to hit him, to push, to rile him until the anger Trott kept tightly under the surface came free. Smith was dead certain it was there, because he’d known Trott far too long now not to know him well.

“Fucking yell at me already,” Smith snapped. He wanted it. He wanted it plain on the table between them, for Trott to lose his cool, and say angry things. This wouldn’t be over until then.

“You don’t need me yelling at you, Smith.”

“Just get it over with,” urged Smith, trying not beg. Couldn’t he just end this? Why was he trying to be nice about it. The gentle, disappointed tone of Trott’s voice was too much. It hurt, a dull ache pressing against his ribs to remind him of what a failure he was once again. It left the words lingering in his mind, the thoughts of how a good guy wouldn’t drink up his day’s wages like this, wouldn’t make Trott come out to drag him home in the middle of the night, wouldn’t keep falling into the same tired routines.

“I’m not going to yell at you, Smith. I’m too tired and I just want us to go to bed, together.” Trott slumped, his voice still soft and gentle like it would make a difference. He was doing his thing, his careful controlled routine.

“Really? After everything I’ve done? You’re just going to let it go?” Smith stared, a little incredulous.

“Clearly you’re punishing yourself enough,” Trott snorted, disdain in his gesture.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it when we fuck.” Smith made the words cruel, and felt a hollow sense of triumph when Trott flinched.

“That is not what I am doing and if you think it is we need to have a serious talk, Smith.” Trott shook his head, his voice disappointed but sharp.

“Oh fuck you, and fuck your serious talks.” Smith smiled, something vicious in the expression. This was going to have to be ugly. He could make it ugly, if he tried. He felt reckless, emboldened by the drink, and by his own self loathing. He wanted to drive that crack in Trott’s voice open wide, bring all the things out into the light.

“Smith-” Before Trott could finish, Smith hit him. It was harder than he intended, but sometimes he forgot that this wasn’t always a fight for survival. Trott reeled back and Smith closed the gap to shove him. They spun around, and for a moment Smith thought he might black out right there, land in a twisted heap on the kitchen floor. Darkness filled his vision. There was a moment like a missing frame, where everything jerked and then he was standing in the center of the room. He pushed Trott hard into the kitchen table, kissing him with a desperate, wordless plea. Trott’s surprised moan undid some of his fury. Smith clung to the thin edge of despair, feeling the ground shift under his feet.

“Bed?” Smith whispered. He tried to communicate his need with the press of his leg between Trott’s thighs. If it was going to end, Smith at least wanted one last fuck in there. Something to remember Trott by, bruises and regrets to go with everything else.

Holding on was the only thing keeping him upright now. He focused on Trott’s face, the blur of disbelief and pain, hoping against hope that somehow Trott would understand what he wanted, what he needed. Smith wanted to howl, to let the fury and misery swimming about in his veins spill out until there was nothing left and he was an empty husk. Maybe then the noise in his head would ease. All he wanted was for it to stop, for some relief from the relentless parade of doubt and judgement in his mind. If he couldn’t drown it out, then maybe Trott could do it for him.

In the bedroom, Smith tussled with him, pushing him down on the bed with a growl and rough hands. He was goading him, pushing harder and harder, wondering when Trott would push back. Finally Trott shoved him away, and Smith had to repress the urge to laugh with relief.

“You can do better than that, mate,” grunted Smith, pulling Trott’s head close. The familiar scent of him filled Smith’s nose, the way he smelled of soap almost enough to make him cry.

“I’m not trying to do better.” Trott’s eyes flashed, a fierce glare. He wriggled, working his legs up to try for leverage against Smith’s weight. He finally shoved hard, pushing Smith away with a knee.

“That’s more like it, Trotty,” Smith half laughed, rising back up. Trott smashed into him, a shoulder to his chest that sent them sprawling off the bed. Smith bit the inside of his mouth, thumping into the floor with a hard jolt as they rolled. The pain threaded through the drunken haze, sharpening his focus.

“Stop fighting me, Smith,” Trott growled, and Smith could hear the fraying edge of his temper in the sound of his words. They stumbled against each other, and Smith struggled to stay on his feet. He leaned all his weight into Trott, aiming just to keep himself upright. Trott’s hands fisted in his shirt, shoving him back.

“Why should I? You like it when we play rough.” Smith’s smile was cold, twisting the words into the heart of their life. It was a cheap, dirty move. But he was tired and sick, and he wanted to hurt just as much on the outside as the inside. He wanted Trott to hurt him, for Trott to be the one. After all, Trott put up with him so much that surely he’d want to just let loose finally. If anyone deserved the chance to put one over on him, it was the man who kept bringing him home and cleaning up his mistakes.

Trott pulled his arm, twisting it around hard enough to send a sharp bolt of pain up his arm, so that Smith had to turn to follow his move or risk more serious injury. He stumbled into the bed, landing face down in the rumpled bedding. Trott’s knee dug into the small of his back. His weight was enough to keep Smith down, scrabbling for some hold. Roughly, Trott manhandled him up onto the mattress like some recalcitrant patient.

“Relax,” Trott hissed. Smith missed the sound of his belt coming off, realizing only when Trott pulled the loop tight around his wrist. He flailed, but Trott’s knees were tight at his ribs and he couldn’t get the leverage to free himself. Efficiently, Trott pulled his wrists together and tied them tightly, the thin leather belt looped around and between his wrists several times.

“Come on, fucking give it to me,” Smith growled, tossing his head. He jerked against Trott’s hold, struggling to roll him off. But Trott was planted firmly over his back, and with his hands tied there was less he could do. Fighting just twisted the belt tighter. The pressure of the bond, the weight of Trott on top of him, gave him just enough to fight against but not escape. Smith breathed hard, feeling his exhaustion and the swimming sense of drunkenness dulling his reactions.

“I’m not-” Trott’s voice wavered. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Smith made an angry sound into the quilt bunched by his face. The sense of absence when Trott slid off made him want to fight again. Trott’s touches were too gentle now, his hands working at Smith’s trousers, his mouth pressed to the back of Smith’s neck with the barest hint of teeth. It was usually what he liked, but in this moment it wasn’t what he craved.

“Why not?” Smith squirmed. “Fucking deserve it, come on Trott. Be a friend.” His words blurred, his tongue thick in his mouth. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say. That he wanted to beg for Trott to hurt him enough to make the outside feel like it measured up to the storm in his head. He needed to hurt. It only made sense if he could make these feelings physical, something tangible.

Trott rolled back onto him, pressing his hips down against Smith. Moaning, Smith arched up into him, pulling his knees forward to hold himself up. Trott’s hand slid under him again, reaching in to stroke him over his underwear. Smith whined in the back of his throat at the touch, stiffening at the barest press of Trott’s hand. It took so little. Trott could always undo him with the simplest touches. This was almost as good as hurting, and part of him wondered why he didn’t just start with this instead of picking a fight.

“Up, Smith.” Trott yanked on the belt, dragging him to his knees. Smith nearly wept with relief. He wriggled back, kneeling on the bed with his head down, waiting. Surely now, Trott would lay into him, give him a few good smacks, and Smith could carry the pain of it. But Trott didn’t touch him, instead arranging the pillows. When he tried to push Smith back down, Smith snarled and struggled again.

“Work with me.” Trott’s hands were painfully gentle as he held Smith, rubbing against the tight muscles of his arms. Hoping maybe Trott just wanted him more comfortably situated before he punished him for being such a prick, Smith finally acquiesced to being arranged on the bed. He bent forward slowly, hips in the air.

“That’s more like it, sunshine.” Smith stifled a groan. Trott’s kindness was too much. He curled over Smith’s back, his mouth moving slowly over the bare skin where Smith’s shirt was pushed up to his shoulders. Trott tugged Smith’s trousers down to his knees. Aching, needy and drunk and yearning, Smith whined low in his throat as Trott’s hands passed over him.

“Stay there,” Trott said, and his voice had that firm certainty. Smith hummed, a wordless acknowledgement. He felt Trott get off the bed. Smith’s head swam, the underwater sense of the world making everything a bit loose. The room wasn’t quite spinning, but it felt unsteady. He concentrated on holding himself up on his knees, his forehead pressed hard into the bed. The belt around his wrists, his clothes tangled around his legs, grounded him down against the way his head swam.

“So you deserve it?” Trott asked, his voice quiet and serious, cutting into the seesaw wobble of his thoughts.

“Hell,” Smith groaned into the pillow. Trott’s hand slid over the curve of his hip, across his arse. Fingers wrapped around his half hard cock and Smith nearly jerked forward into the touch. At the same time, another finger pushed into him from behind. The discomfort and the pleasure blurred together, and Smith rocked himself as hard as he dared against Trott’s hands. A second finger joined the first, opening him up to Trott. He could feel the shudders starting, somewhere deep in his stomach, a full bodied trembling born of drink and desire. Smith groaned again, the rough want and need in his voice.

“Why?” He heard Trott ask the question, and Smith squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Trott stopped pushing his fingers in, even as his hand continued to slide up the length of his cock. “I need you to tell me, Smith.”

Shaking, Smith wondered if Trott would stop entirely if he didn’t respond. This was almost more torture than he’d bargained for. Physical pain he could handle. He welcomed it even. it kept him steady, kept him going. But having to speak was hard. Smith sucked in a ragged breath.

“I’m a bad person,” he finally managed. It wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, but actually making words for this come out of his mouth felt impossible, even before actually saying the things he thought. Trott spread his fingers inside Smith, his grip tightening on his cock.

“Why’s that, sunshine?” Trott’s hand slowed, coming to a stop again, and Smith nearly screamed. He could feel Trott’s eyes on him. But he’d started this, he’d see it through.

“I killed so many people,” Smith whispered, feeling the bleak despair inside him. I killed so many people, I didn’t save enough of our own, he thought. I failed. There was a moment when he thought Trott might stop, but then he pushed another finger inside. Smith whimpered, his hips rising up into Trott’s hand. It stung but the pain was welcome. The pain kept him here, kept him from sinking, or shattering. Smith rocked himself in Trott’s hands, wanting to weep from his misery and the terrible gratitude for Trott’s presence at his back.

“Look at me, Smith.” Trott’s voice pulled him up, and Smith reluctantly opened his eyes on the dim bedroom light. Trott’s face was half in shadow over him, his dark eyes shining. He wanted Smith to keep talking, and somehow this was harder than anything they’d ever done.

“I shouldn’t have lived, oh fuck, I shouldn’t, everyone, I don’t - don’t deserve this, fuck, not you, don’t deserve you.” He couldn’t stop himself now, babbling between the high, breathless noises he kept making as Trott’s fingers forced him open and squeezed his cock. The touch, so familiar and sure, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. He knew Trott was still looking at him even as he shook his head.

“I’m a monster,” Smith gasped, his voice ragged and tearing on the words. It was the refrain so often in his head, even as people congratulated him on surviving. He pushed his head hard against the bed, eyes shut, his mouth open on deep breaths. He wasn’t sure he’d said it aloud, maybe it was only the thought. Smith whimpered, feeling himself right on the edge.

‘You’re not a monster,” Trott said, and Smith could barely focus on the words. He whined as he felt Trott’s motions slow, suddenly afraid Trott was leaving. This was it. It was finally out in the open, all his terrible self, and Trott was going to leave him. Some of his fear must have shown, because suddenly Trott was whispering assurances as he shifted on the bed behind Smith. The press of his naked hips and his erection into Smith made him whimper with relief that Trott was still there. Barely aware of Trott’s voice, he pressed himself back into the warmth of his body.

When Trott started to thrust, Smith started to cry. He moaned, rocking into Trott. He was dimly aware of the tears wetting his temples, running into his hair. He rubbed his face against the bedding, not wanting Trott to see for fear he might end it, might make Smith talk again.

It wasn’t fast enough, or hard enough, and Smith gasped little sounds of need and want. Trott was curled over him, so close Smith could practically feel Trott’s heartbeat against his shoulder.

“Too slow,” Smith tried to say, but the words wouldn’t quite form and he just moaned instead.

“You’re a good man, Smith.” Trott’s hand reached up, fingers tangling through his hair. Smith whimpered, soft and wrecked by kindness he didn’t feel he deserved. He tried to push into Trott, tried to drive away his thoughts but the angles weren’t right and Trott was barely moving. Smith went still, his voice wordless and low in the back of his throat.

“Say you’re good,” Trott whispered, his voice more pleading than Smith wanted to hear. It almost frightened him, the naked yearning in Trott’s tone. That wasn’t like him.

“Fuck you,” Smith panted. But there was no heat or anger left in him, only the hollow ache behind his breast.

“Alex-” and Smith didn’t even hear the rest of the words, focused entirely on the sound of his name in Trott’s mouth. Trott moved ever so slightly, enough in and out to torment them both.

“Alex Smith is a good man - say it for me.” Trott coaxed. One hand brushed the hair at the side of his face.

“Alex Smith - fuck,” Smith groaned, his voice breaking. He risked a glance at Trott. “Please, Trott?”

“Alright, Alex, breathe,” Trott soothed, shifting his hips again so pleasure crawled up Smith’s spine. Smith swallowed, terrified of the words. He started, and stopped, struggling to get the words out. Trott’s hand moved slow and steady on him, urging him forward.

“Alex Smith is a good man,” he said, his voice shaking into a sob. Part of him screamed that it wasn’t true, it was a lie, how could Trott want him to lie this way. Another much quieter part suggested maybe Trott actually believed the lie, maybe it would be enough. Smith didn’t know what to believe.

“Good lad,” Trott comforted him, lips pressed to the bare skin of his back. He sped up his thrusts and Smith moved gratefully into them, losing himself in the pleasure of it. Trott brought him off quickly, his hand stroking tight and fast over his cock and his hips driving into Smith.

They slumped in the bed, and Smith shuddered. The lingering pleasure of his orgasm took him even further out of his head, away from the discomfort of his conflicting thoughts. When Trott slid slightly away, he whimpered. Dimly he was aware of Trott pulling clothes back on him, and untying his hands. Trott murmured something, and Smith rolled onto his side, curling his arms up to his chest as Trott put the bed back to rights.

“Be right back, sunshine.” Trott’s lips brushed his temple, his hair damp and sticking to his skin. Smith let his eyes close as Trott got off the bed. He laid there, feeling the room spin and the dull aftershocks. His wrists stung, the skin reddened and chafed from the belt. Already he couldn’t remember Trott untying his hands. He felt sore, aching. Blinking, he registered that Trott was gone.

Alone in the bed, Smith curled tightly onto his side. He pressed a fist into his mouth, trying to stifle the sob building up in his throat. The sense of unworthiness made him feel wretched. He was so aware, even drunk and wrecked, that he did not deserve the kindness of Chris Trott. He kept saving Smith from himself, time and time again. Smith sobbed as quietly as possible, one of those skills he’d kept handy even after they were sent back. No sense in keeping anyone else awake with your fear or your grief. His shoulders shook, and Smith sucked in deep, ragged breaths as he fought to get it all out before Trott returned. Smith scrubbed at his face with his shirt, wiping away the tears. The redness of his eyes would be easy to blame on everything else, the dampness could pass for sweat, the trembling on the drink and the fucking.

When he registered the sound of Trott’s feet in the hall, Smith blinked his eyes open again. He watched Trott settle beside him, and Smith pressed his face into Trott’s leg with a wordless greeting. He felt safer, with Trott there, as if his presence was enough of a light to keep back the nightmares. Trott murmured something and put a hand on his leg. The damp towel was chilly on his skin, and Smith made a quiet, disgruntled sound as Trott cleaned off the dried semen and the sticky mess of vaseline.

Trott pushed a cup into his face, and Smith batted at it. He didn’t want to drink anything else and risk the careful balance of his stomach. He was so tired, and now all he wanted was to close his eyes on a pillow. Somewhere, he felt a profound sense of relief that he wasn’t alone, that Trott was still there.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” pressed Trott, his hand on the back of Smith’s head. Too tired to argue, Smith struggled to sit with Trott’s help. He drank the cup in one long go, the water cold in his throat and soothing. He flopped back with a heavy sigh, unsteady and exhausted. He’d been up a long time, and the buzz of the drinking faded into the weariness. Smith was asleep before Trott had even wrapped the blanket around him.

 

Morning light burned behind his eyes, a red glow that grew in intensity along with the throbbing at his temples. Smith groaned, unable to delay the hangover or waking any longer. He rolled his head away from Trott’s leg and onto the bed.

“Fuck, I feel awful,” he groaned. He held his arm over his face, trying to see if less light would mean less pain. Rubbing at his face, Smith slowly opened his eyes.  

“Did I?” he asked, already knowing the answer even as the question left his mouth. He felt a stab of guilt at the slight twist of Trott’s lips, the long suffering smile he put on even as he put away his book and carefully took off his glasses. There was a moment where Smith offered a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t broken Trott’s glasses at least. The bruise was livid, purple and red, fresh as a daisy. Trott scrunched down in the bed so they were face to face. Up close it looked even worse and Smith blanched.

“It’s alright, Smith. How much of last night do you remember?” That was one of Smith’s least favorite questions. Too much, and they’d talk about what he should and shouldn’t feel bad about. Not enough and Trott’s disappointed, anxious stare would drive home guilt about everything he couldn’t remember. Smith swallowed, wanting to close his eyes and bury his face back in the pillows.

“I- I mean we-” He broke off, gesturing instead. Trott smirked at him. That part was easy. He was just achy enough to know they’d gone at it. Smith fumbled with his memories, piecing together the fragments of the evening. There was a lot he didn’t remember, but enough that he did. He was used to reading the nights he couldn’t remember in Trott’s expression, in empty pockets and broken things.

“You made me say some things,” he said, his voice quiet and vulnerable with a sort of wonder. He hadn’t meant to show he still hurt, but it slipped out as he turned the scattered memories over in his mind. Smith risked glancing at Trott’s face, whose brown eyes shone with unexpected compassion and warmth. He pulled Smith closer, kissing his forehead. The tenderness of the gesture wasn’t lost on Smith, and he felt a stab of guilt. He thought about one of the guys he knew, another RAF man whose wife often had bruises on her arms that spoke volumes about what happened at home. Smith had never wanted it to be that way with them. The shame of it weighed him down. He didn’t know if it was better or worse that he couldn’t remember that part. Smith swore silently that he’d never do this again, words that held an uneasy familiarity.

“I did, and don’t you forget them.” Smith nodded into Trott’s chest as they hugged each other tightly in the tangle of bedclothes. He just wanted to stay right there, his eyes closed and arms tight around Trott. Maybe if they laid there in the bed all day, his hangover would vanish along with the memories of his anger and his bad behavior. Maybe he would be a better person when he got out.

“We’ll leave it at that,” said Trott. “Let’s get some food in you.” He climbed out of bed and there was nothing to do but follow, struggling to act as normally as possible. Smith’s head throbbed, and there was a faint ache in his knuckles from where he’d connected with Trott’s face. He touched the red scrape on the inside of his wrist, the mark of a belt he recognized. Smith struggled to find words, working past the sour taste in his mouth towards something like normal. Trott’s suggestion they go to Clifford’s was a relief. Being out in the world would force them both to act like last night hadn’t quite happened, that they were normal people who didn’t drink too much or hurt each other. Better than eating in silence in their little kitchen. He fussed over Trott, trying to be affectionate and show him how grateful he was that Trott hadn’t walked out on him yet.

In the watery sunlight, the bruise on Trott’s face was livid. He also looked exhausted, circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that Smith recognized. Trying to stay close, keeping up a smile and an amiable persona for the sake of the world was difficult while this hungover but Smith pushed through. He even opened the door for Trott, struggling not to wince at the tinny clatter of the bell right by his head.

Smith wondered what their waitress thought of them. He’d seen her often enough, the same woman on many of the mornings they splurged on having someone else cook a meal for them. It was just easier than digging out the ration books and coupons and walking all the way out to the shops. They were both bad at sorting out the groceries, and really he should put more effort into it because he had more spare time, but Smith never thought to do it. If he did have money in his pocket, it went to tobacco and alcohol.

Smith poured the cream into Trott’s coffee after the waitress went away, spooning in extra sugar. Trott always liked it poisonously sweet after a hard night. Smith watched him drink, and wondered if Trott had even slept after he passed out. Guilt twisted his stomach into knots.

“About last night,” Smith started, his voice low. He felt like he had to say something, before he lost the nerve.

“You don’t have to say anything, Smith,” sighed Trott. He spun the coffee in his hands.

“Just.” Smith swallowed and gestured. They leaned closer over the table, and Smith made himself meet Trott’s stare. “Thank you.”

“I’d do it any day for you, Smith.” Trott’s voice was quiet, but the look in his eyes overwhelmed Smith. He looked away, overcome with feelings he couldn’t express here.

The arrival of the waitress made them both jump, and the moment was broken. Smith fixed his grin, attacking breakfast with a sudden hunger. He watched Trott from the corner of his eye, and shoved food at him. It was one of those fundamental disagreements they had, one he couldn’t ever quite understand. He suspected somewhere in his head that watching Trott skip meals was some kind of divine punishment for his own mess. Even under the winter sweaters, Trott looked sharper and thinner this year. Smith noticed the new holes punched in his belt. Smith never said a word about it, but he saw. He counted Trott’s ribs along his back, bent over in the tub. Fixing that was something Smith couldn’t fathom, because he felt sure it would mean fixing himself as well.

 

It was the walk home that drove home how bad this time around felt. Smith felt much more human on a full stomach, the hangover now just the regular dull background ache of the day. But Trott was fading fast, tired and cranky. He dragged his feet on the walk back to the flat, slow as an old man. He nearly walked right past their step. When Smith put his hand on him, Trott pushed him away.

“Don’t treat me like one of your girls you like so much,” Trott snapped.

“I’m not,” Smith said, making his voice as mild as possible. He tried not to react to the anger in Trott’s voice, even if it stung. He made his voice quiet as he unlocked the door. “I’m in your bed, not theirs, you know.”

Trott shrugged his shoulders, irritable and unwilling to look at him now as he followed Smith inside. It wounded Smith, every time Trott made some sharp comment about the way he spoke to people or the inevitable way he flirted. Smith felt bad, that he couldn’t stop without losing his ability to speak to anyone. He wasn’t sure Trott really understood, how much of his charm and casual flirtations were just the only way he could handle having to look people in the eye.

Trott flung himself down on the sofa, and Smith kept going, walking straight back into the kitchen. A shard of plate crunched under his foot, and he stopped. The table was out of place, and pieces of ceramic littered the floor from a broken plate.

“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath. Smith stared at the mess with resignation, trying to remember how he’d broken it this time. All he could recall was Trott half on the kitchen table, and then the bedroom. He crouched on the floor, sweeping up the shards of plate. Few of their plates and cups matched. It was a hazard of living together, these accidents. Trott never complained about it, but Smith felt bad about everything he broke. He wanted him to have a home that wasn’t always sliding towards chaos. Nothing he did ever seemed to stick though.

Smith stretched, easing the twinge in his back. He carried the pieces of plate to the bin, dumping them with a clatter. Half heartedly, Smith tried to clean up a little just so Trott wouldn’t have to. Humming one of the popular love songs from the radio, he carried all the dishes over to the sink and swiped at the crumbs still littering the counter from two days ago. The effort grew exhausting far too quickly however, and Smith stopped before he was even half done.

When he poked his head into the front room, Smith found Trott sitting with his eyes closed and his head leaning into one hand. Something seized painfully in his chest, staring at Trott’s bruised face. Smith felt his throat tighten, and he swallowed away the urge to cry again. It was a luxury he wasn’t going to allow himself, not when he was responsible for today.

Smith retreated to the kitchen, and pulled down a bottle from the top shelf. It was cheap, terrible stuff, because finding anything good was harder than pulling teeth and twice as expensive. But in a pinch, it would do. He grabbed one of the cups in the sink, giving it a cursory glance before pouring himself a measure. He downed the glass, just a little one, in a single swallow. It would help take the edge off the hangover. The warm burn in the back of his throat made it all a little easier to bear. He leaned on the sink and carefully rinsed the glass out, trying to leave his mind blank.

Back in the sitting room, Smith knelt down in front of the sofa. For a few breaths, he just watched Trott doze. He wanted Trott to sleep, because heaven knew he hadn’t last night. Sitting up on the sofa wouldn’t do him much good, and he’d wake up too soon if he stayed there.

“Trott,” he said softly. Trott jerked awake, looking confused for a moment before he rubbed his eyes.

“Sorry, what?”

“Thinking about having a lie down, still a bit hungover and tired.” That was the honest truth at least. He felt so bone deep tired today. Smith paused, and reached out to touch Trott’s knee. His fingers played with the fabric of Trott’s trousers, tracing the seam at his knee.

“Thought you might want to join me,” he continued. “I’d sleep better if you did…”

There was a moment when he thought Trott might refuse, the way he sat so still. But then he sighed, and let Smith help him up off the sofa with the slow, weary motions of a man who had been going too long. Normally the fussy, fastidious one, Trott shucked off his clothes and left them where they fell before climbing back into the bed. Smith followed his lead, stripping down to his underwear before settling next to Trott. He stroked the hair gently back from his forehead, and kissed his bruised cheek delicately, lips barely pressing into his skin. Trott’s eyes blinked open, hazy and unfocused.

“Fucking hell Trott, what are we even doing?” Smith asked. His voice caught, ragged at the end. Anxious and afraid, he rubbed his fingers in circles on Trott’s skin. Last night had been different from all the other nights Trott dragged him home drunk. They’d fought before, even gotten violent and broken things before. They were no strangers to playing rough either, when it came to the bedroom. But Trott had never made him speak before, never tried anything like that. Smith had never spoken aloud about the churn of thoughts that filled his head, the ugly static that he dulled with drinking and reckless behavior. He was so afraid, having exposed that rawness, that it was too much. They’d crossed a line, and maybe this was where Trott finally decided enough was enough. Maybe this time he’d leave. Maybe Smith would just come home to an empty flat one day, all their things gone, or maybe his key wouldn’t work anymore.

“I don’t know, Smith.” Trott closed his eyes again, a crease between his brows. Smith held his breath, terrified of what came next.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t- I am sorry for pushing you last night.” Trott’s voice was not the brutally calm one of the night before, or the soothing one of the morning. It wavered just a little, and somehow that was worse. “I shouldn’t have done what I did when you were too drunk…”

Smith winced. They never spoke about his drinking directly.

“I shouldn’t have when you couldn’t say no, the way you were last night.” Trott opened his eyes again. “I’m sorry.” The expression in his eyes was so tender, so concerned. For a moment all Smith felt was relief so intense he wanted to collapse.

“It’s alright,” Smith murmured, pulling Trott to his chest. “You’ve never done wrong by me, Trott.” He rubbed his hands over Trott’s back, hooking one foot over Trott’s ankle. Smith relaxed a little, the fear that Trott was on his way out the door receding into the more general background worries of his life. He hadn’t ruined things, not yet. At least not so bad they couldn’t come back from it.

“What a fucking pair we make, eh?” he whispered into Trott’s hair. Smith held him close. He wanted to remember this, the way Trott’s hair smelled and the softness of it pressed to this face, the feel of Trott curled into his chest.

“That we do,” Trott agreed. Smith made a soft sound of agreement and dragged blankets around them. Safe in bed, wrapped up in Trott, maybe he could sleep through the worst of the feelings. Then he’d get up, and try again.

 


End file.
